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i 


RODARI,  SCULPTOR 


A  Story  of  Pisa 


by 


VIRGINIA    E.  PENNOYER 


D.   PAUL   ELDER   AND   MORGAN   SHEPARD 

SAN   FRANCISCO 

1901 


Copyright,  ZQOO 

h 

VIRGINIA  E.  PENNOYER 


ttflO 


TO   MY   MOTHER 


K 

or  THE 
UNIVERSITY 

OF 


RODARI,  SCULPTOR 

A  Story   of  Pisa 


CHAPTER  I 

_  *  . 

RINGING  out  in  vibrating  tones  —  solemn,  clanging, 
or  mellowly  sweet  —  the  bells  of  Pisa  sounded  the 
midday  hour. 

Matteo  Rodari  paused  in  his  work,  with  uplifted  head, 
and  listened  to  the  throbbing  echoes  until  they  died  away. 
He  laid  aside  the  narrow  lapboard  holding  his  few  tools, 
then  covered  with  a  cloth  the  small  block  of  Carrara  mar- 
ble upon  which  he  had  spent  his  morning's  effort,  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

The  air  of  the  little  shop  was  hot  and  close,  though 
through  the  window  to  the  east  came  a  faint  breeze,  stir- 
ring the  fine  particles  of  marble-dust  upon  the  narrow 
sill.  Tiny  drifts  of  the  same  white  substance  rested  upon 
the  bench,  work-table  and  floor,  like  a  thin  fall  of  early 
wind-blown  snow. 

Placed  upon  shelves  protected  by  sliding  doors  of 
greenish  glass,  were  rows  of  small  replicas  in  different 
colored  marbles,  of  Italy's  greatest  art  treasures.  Spir- 
ited, life-like  forms  by  Bologna,  Donatello  and  Cellini 
stood  side  by  side.  The  exquisite  elegance  of  a  relief  of 
Mino  da  Fiesole  shouldered  an  ornamented  slab  from  a 
twelfth  century  tomb,  while  here  and  there,  dimly  seen 


Rodari,    Sculptor 


through  the  dusty  glass,  was  a  noble  classic  head,  lily- 
like  Corinthian  column,  or  finely  modeled  Greek  torso. 

Stiff  and  weary  from  hours  of  sitting,  Matteo  blew  in 
little  clouds  the  white  powder  from  his  hands  and  sleeves, 
and  stretched  his  arms  above  his  head — seeking  relief 
in  the  motion  and  change  of  attitude.  His  rather  long  face 
was  thin  and  worn.  The  heavy-lidded  eyes  were  usually 
half  closed  in  dreamy  abstraction,  living,  as  he  did,  in  a 
world  of  his  own,  from  where  he  seldom  clearly  per- 
ceived that  which  occurred  in  the  one  of  every  day  about 
him. 

His  slender  hands,  with  their  supple,  delicate-nailed 
fingers  of  tapering  length,  and  the  broad  brow  and 
shapely  head,  evidenced  the  artistic  temperament,  checked, 
and  perhaps  dominated,  by  the  austerity  of  the  thin- 
lipped,  firmly-closed  mouth. 

His  look  sought  the  half-open  door  of  the  room  lead- 
ing from  the  rear  of  the  workshop,  and  he  called  softly, 
"Corrona." 

Receiving  no  response,  he  untied  the  worn  green 
apron  he  wore,  and,  throwing  it  over  his  work-bench, 
stepped  over  the  threshold  of  the  tiny  chamber  and  stood 
looking  about  him. 

A  low  bed  filled  the  longest  wall  space.  This,  with  a 
child's  carved  chair,  a  brass-nailed,  gaily  painted  leather 
trunk,  serving  now  as  table  and  bureau,  was  the  only  furni- 
ture the  little  room  held,  and  the  small  objects  about  spoke 
but  briefly  of  its  occupant,  so  few  were  they. 

Matteo  lifted  a  white  marble  lion  from  the  trunk  top 
and  held  it  contemplatively  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
The  shop  without  held  several  finely  sculptured  specimens 
of  the  same  subject,  but  this  meant  to  him  more  than 
them  all.  A  smile  came  to  his  eyes  from  the  thoughts 
stirred  by  the  small  treasure,  for  treasure  it  was  to 


A    Story    of  Pisa 


Corrona,  its  owner,  and  through  his  little  daughter's  valu- 
ation of  it  his  had  grown. 

Being  in  some  way  defective,  he  had  given  it  to  her 
as  a  plaything  years  before.  The  head  only,  clearly  de- 
fined ;  the  body  and  limbs  but  suggested. 

It  had  troubled  Corrona  so  much,  the  imprisoned  form 
gazing  at  her  out  of  its  marble  eyes,  seemingly  demanding 
freedom,  she  could  not  sleep,  and  had  crept  into  his  room 
in  the  night  to  beg  him,  with  sobbing  breath,  to  "let  the 
lion  out  just  a  little  while,  padre  mia,  his  eyes  ache  so  to 
get  out ! "  He  took  the  forlorn  little  figure  in  his  arms, 
and  she  fell  asleep  with  the  reproachful-eyed  animal  chill- 
ing her  small  hand,  comforted  by  the  promise  of  its 
liberty,  which  was  kept. 

In  her  imagination  it  was  gifted  with  wonderful  powers 
of  transformation.  At  one  time  it  would  be  hung  in  a 
wooden  box  in  her  window  —  a  golden-winged  canary. 
Then,  the  feathers  would  be  changed  to  fins,  and  as  a 
deep-sea  fish  it  would  be  dropped  to  the  bottom  of  the 
copper  water-jar,  breaking  the  tip  of  its  royal  marble 
nose  one  tragic  day  as  it  struck  the  ocean's  metal  bed. 
Best  of  all,  placed  on  her  pillow,  he  guarded  her  at 
night  in  his  proper  form  from  the  bad  dreams  she  so 
feared. 

Matteo  sighed,  remembering  her  intense  pleasure  in  the 
possession  of  something  all  her  own,  and  putting  it  back 
in  its  place,  turned  to  seek  the  owner. 

The  Ponte  Solferino  basked  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
noon  sun,  its  three-arched,  lion-guarded  span  repeating 
itself  in  a  broad  band  of  brown  shadow  upon  the  muddy 
water  of  the  Arno. 

Before  the  shop  the  river  ran  between  the  walled 
banks,  shallow  and  waveless,  without  ripple  or  break  in 
the  flow.  The  shores  were  bare  of  tree  or  bush  or  the 


Rodari,   Sculptor 


lower  growth  of  rank  grass,  weeds,  or  slender  water 
plants  —  a  river's  toll  for  its  right  of  way.  Giving  back 
to  the  sky  no  reflection  of  its  blue,  only  a  metallic  glitter, 
it  dazzled  Matteo's  eyes  and  seemed  to  him  like  a  stream 
of  burning  bronze,  returning  to  the  sun  a  heat  nearly 
equal  to  its  own. 

This  hour  of  the  nooning  usually  found  the  neighbor- 
hood deserted  by  the  passing  townspeople  or  straying 
tourist,  and  the  high,  flat-faced  houses,  each  side  of  the 
narrow  river,  showed  no  sign  of  the  busy  life  within  their 
hidden  courts,  where  many  arts  and  occupations  were 
followed  side  by  side  in  the  small  spaces  of  the  poorly 
lighted  shops. 

To-day  something  in  the  way  the  sun  and  shade  met 
upon  the  water  beneath  the  Ponte  brought  to  Matteo's 
memory,  as  he  stood  in  the  narrow  doorway  of  his  shop, 
the  days  when  he  had  first  looked  upon  this  spot. 

How  long  ago  they  seemed  !  Yet  the  remembrance 
was  as  vivid  as  if  they  were  but  yesterday  —  the  frail  wife 
and  young  child,  the  newness  of  the  life,  the  inquisitive 
strangers,  with  their  prying  questions,  living  about  them  — 
with  an  impatient  sigh  he  turned  away,  trying  to  free 
himself  from  the  unwelcome  memory,  and  so  perceived, 
for  the  first  time,  the  little  figure  of  his  daughter  seated 
upon  the  river  wall  with  her  back  to  the  Via,  not  fifty  feet 
from  where  he  stood. 

The  low  murmur  of  the  water  deadened  the  sound  of 
his  approaching  footsteps,  but  a  slight  movement  of  the 
slender  form  showed  that  the  perfect  calm  of  her  dream- 
ing solitude  was  stirred  by  his  presence.  She  sat  in  the 
hot  sunshine  of  the  treeless  Lungarno,  her  two  arms 
clasping  her  knees,  and  her  small,  deer-like  head  erect, 
though  the  wide-set  eyes  were  drooped,  watching  the 
river's  flow. 


A   Story   of   Pisa 


In  a  moment  she  turned,  roused  from  her  thoughts 
by  his  nearness,  and  met  his  slow  smile  and  outstretched 
hand  by  a  loving  ' '  padre  mia ! ' '  and  a  delicate  color 
crept  into  her  little  face  as  he  raised  and  held  against  his 
cheek  for  a  moment  the  small,  chill  hand. 

He  stood  silently  by  her  side  in  the  white  light,  and 
the  two  figures  seemed  as  alone  as  if  no  city  encircled 
them. 

Matteo  Rodari  had  appeared  some  years  before  with 
his  small  family,  and  established  himself  in  the  shop  on  the 
Lungarno.  The  near  neighbors  were  eager  at  first  to 
show  every  kindness,  give  every  aid  to  the  newcomers, 
but  they  soon  found  that,  though  the  good-will  was  grate- 
fully acknowledged,  the  strong  element  of  curiosity  it 
contained  was  perceived  and  left  ungratified.  They  could 
learn  but  little  of  the  family,  save  that  Matteo  had  been  a 
sculptor  of  Rome,  had  traveled  somewhat,  meeting  and 
marrying  his  young  wife  in  Sicily,  where  they  had  lived 
before  coming  to  Pisa.  The  reason  of  this  northward 
journey  was  unknown  and  could  not  be  ascertained, 
therefore  was  a  matter  of  much  conjecture  and  even 
suspicion.  In  time  the  curiosity  gave  place  to  newer 
interests,  and  the  women  decided  that  the  change  must 
have  been  made  because  of  the  wife's  failing  health. 
Still,  the  reserve  and  implied  lack  of  confidence  chilled 
all  neighborly  intercourse  or  real  friendliness,  and  the 
man  and  now  motherless  child  were  left  outside  of  the 
intimate  interests  of  a  little  community. 

Matteo  soon  proved  his  superior  ability  in  his  art, 
and  unconsciously  aroused  as  much  envy  as  admiration 
by  its  exquisite  finish  and  accuracy.  His  shrinking 
nature  and  lack  of  business  ability  prevented  his  name 
from  being  of  note  beyond  the  city.  Only  a  few  fellow 
artists  and  the  occasionally  appreciative  purchaser  from 


io  Rodari,   Sculptor 

other  lands  knew  of  the  faithful  work  and  consummate 
skill  put  into  his  reproductions. 

Through  their  monotony  the  years  passed  quickly, 
though  to  him  they  were  empty  of  all  joy.  The  work  of 
each  day,  the  satisfaction  in  its  worth  and  growing  power, 
alone  gave  him  the  small  measure  of  content  he  owned, 
while  of  the  solitary  child  growing  by  his  side  he  was 
neglectfully  kind,  really  unaware  as  yet  of  the  depth  of 
her  hungry  little  soul,  of  her  patient,  uncomplaining  lone- 
liness. 

Several  times  of  late  he  had  been  roused  from  his  long 
reveries  by  the  searching,  questioning  look,  surprised  in 
her  dark  eyes,  eyes  over  which  the  long  lashes  quickly 
fell,  as  she  became  suddenly  conscious  of  her  intruding 
interest,  and  so  withdrew,  as  one  caught  on  the  threshold 
of  some  forbidden  chamber,  holding  within  its  denied 
space  the  magnet  to  all  thought  and  feeling. 

The  unmeasured  generosity  of  her  love  touched  him 
vaguely  ;  his  slightest  notice  brought  such  quick  response 
of  confident  content ;  such  eager  hands  met  his  careless 
touch,  while  the  young  heart  gave  fully  and  freely  of  its 
wealth  of  trusting  love  and  faith. 

Corrona  had  long  sought  to  understand  his  varying 
moods,  watching,  with  wise,  thinking  eyes,  his  absorbed 
face  as  it  was  bent  over  his  tool.  She  knew  every  pass- 
ing shade  upon  it  as  she  knew  the  form  and  color  of  the 
beautiful  chapel  before  their  door.  In  the  long  hours  of 
his  silent  days  she  felt  the  certainty  of  his  kindness,  just 
as  she  was  sure  that  the  white  walls  of  the  building,  with 
their  fine  detail  of  mosaic  and  lace -like  carving,  would 
meet  her  eyes  in  the  morning  when  she  drew  aside  the 
curtain  from  her  window.  Once,  in  the  night,  the  fright- 
ening thought  had  come  that,  the  chapel  had  been  on  its 
way  to  the  great  Basilica,  but  in  some  way  had  lost  itself 


OF 

Story    of   Pisa  n 


by  the  river  side,  where  it  now  stood,  waiting  to  hear  the 
word  which  would  guide  it  to  its  companions  in  the  wide 
Piazza  del  Duomo. 

Springing  from  her  bed,  she  flew  to  her  window  and 
threw  open  the  wooden  shutters,  covering  her  eyes  for  a 
tearing  moment,  with  the  trembling  pressure  of  her  child- 
ish hands,  dreading  to  look,  for  might  not  her  thought 
have  come  true?  Maybe  the  dear  Santa  Maria  della 
Spina  had  been  told  by  the  night  wind  the  way  to  the 
place  it  had  been  seeking  and  was  gone  ! 

Her  joy  to  see  it  resting  in  its  place,  still  crowding  its 
small  perfection  upon  the  narrow  Via  Gambacorte,  made 
her  drop  to  her  knees  in  a  prayer  of  thankfulness,  and 
sent  her  to  the  custodi  the  next  morning  to  beg  permis- 
sion to  enter  before  the  hour  of  the  early  service,  where 
she  knelt  in  silent  happiness,  her  eyes  slowly  covering 
every  beloved  detail  of  its  Gothic  beauty,  while  she  told 
her  beads  with  a  fervor  of  faith  and  gratitude  until  the 
worshipers  entered  for  the  early  morning  mass. 

Corrona  always  felt  the  whole  city  hers,  and  hers 
alone  at  this  hour,  and  now  to  share  its  possession  with 
the  beloved  padre  gave  her  full  content,  and  her  face,  as 
she  leaned  it  against  his  arm,  spoke  of  the  rarity  of  this 
moment  of  companionship  and  sympathy  of  mood,  —  days 
at  a  time  passing  with  only  a  word  or  two  from  him  to 
think  over,  as  she  lay  in  the  dark  of  her  little  room  at 
night,  wondering  over  his  silent  ways. 

As  they  rested  now,  side  by  side,  they  faced  the  west- 
ern wall  of  the  chapel,  and  their  eyes  sought  the  ever- 
new  beauty  of  the  small  building. 

Against  the  sky  sprang  the  delicate  flame-like  points 
of  the  five  pinnacles,  with  their  carven  saints  canopied 
beneath,  at  watch  over  the  river.  Over  the  two  windows 
curved  the  half  circle  of  the  inlaid  arches,  rich  with  mar- 


12  Rodari,   Sculptor 

ble  mosaic.  From  these  two  windows  at  night  Corrona 
sometimes  drew  comfort  and  companionship  as  the  soft 
light  streamed  out  to  her  from  the  candle-lit  interior. 

The  child  glanced  up  at  the  man's  face,  and  her  own 
lightened  as  she  saw  that  the  usual  gloom  upon  it  was 
somewhat  lifted  under  the  spell  of  the  beauty  before  them. 
How  kind  his  face  was,  she  thought,  as  she  studied  it  with 
serious  eyes.  How  good  to  her  he  always  was  !  And 
now,  to  take  these  moments  of  rest  with  her  in  the  sunny, 
open  air  !  And  she  sighed  with  a  contentment  unusual. 

Suddenly  a  thought  came,  flushing  the  thin  young 
face  with  excitement :  Would  it  not  be  a  good  time  to 
tell  him  the  great  secret,  the  many  weeks'  old  secret, 
which  was  to  prove  to  him  that  she  was  now  old  enough 
to  help  him  earn  the  centesimi, —  could  really  at  last  aid 
in  adding  to  the  little  hoard  of  brown  coins  in  the  brass 
box  on  his  bureau?  She  wished  to  speak  of  so  many, 
many  things  !  Where  should  she  begin?  And  should 
she  disturb  him  now  ?  Was  it  a  good  time  ? 

Her  childish  breast  rose  and  fell  in  quickened  breath- 
ing, and  she  unconsciously  stiffened  herself  for  the  effort  of 
speech,  sitting  away  from  the  supporting  arm,  more 
sought  than  offered,  as  her  companion  leaned  against  the 
wall  by  her  side. 

She  pressed  her  two  palms  together  tightly,  and  shut 
her  eyes,  that  she  might  the  more  clearly  think  of  the 
words  to  speak. 

Oh,  the  many  things  !  the  many  things  !  Where 
should  she  begin  ? 

Then  the  doubt  cleared  away  and  her  resolve  framed 
itself  into  two  softly  whispered  words,  * '  mia  madre' ' ;  she 
would  ask  of  the  beautiful  young  madre  of  whom  she 
knew  so  little  ;  and  that  little  was  growing  less,  bare  as 
was  the  present  of  all  allusion  to  the  dead.  Matteo  never 


A    Story    of   Pisa  13 

spoke  of  her,  and,  although  Corrona  could  not  have  told 
how  the  impression  became  so  clear,  she  felt  sure  that 
some  feeling,  as  strong  as  his  love,  colored  his  thought  of 
the  madre,  standing  between  him  and  peace. 

Yes,  the  first  words  must  be  of  her ;  and  she  must  know 
what  troubled  him,  why  he  never  talked  of  the  beautiful 
days  when  she  was  as  other  children,  having  a  madre  of 
her  own  —  her  very  own  ! 

He  seemed  kinder  even  than  usual,  and  no  one  was 
passing.  Would  he  listen  long  enough  ? 

"Padre,"  she  began,  falteringly ;  then,  meeting  his 
glance,  paled  a  little  under  the  swift  thought  of  how  her 
words  might  drive  away  the  contentment  in  his  look. 

He  stooped  slightly,  the  better  to  read  the  emotion  he 
saw  stirring  the  depths  of  her  black  eyes,  and,  brushing 
from  her  forehead  the  long  hair,  raised  the  little  face  in 
his  palm,  studying  it. 

' '  What  is  it,  child  ?  Are  you  not  well  ?  I  think  you 
need  a  visit  from  your  Golden  Lady.  Would  that  please 
you  ?  It  is  time  for  her  to  come.  She  said  between  the 
1  Festa  della  Statute '  and  the  *  Assunzione '  she  would 
surely  return  to  Pisa." 

"  Oh,  padre  !  If  she  would  only  come  !" — with  a 
long  sigh,  partly  of  anticipation,  partly  in  the  relief  of  the 
moment's  reprieve.  Then,  the  self-set  task  childishly 
forgotten,  she  added  reassuringly,  as  if  doubt  had  risen, 
twin  to  the  pleasure  the  idea  presented  : 

' '  You  know  you  were  to  make  her  face  in  the  mar- 
ble, and  she  promised  to  teach  me  things  like  other 
girls,"  and  Corrona  lost  herself  in  imagining  the  hoped- 
for  arrival. 

How  easy  it  was  to  recall  the  first  coming  of  "The 
Golden  Lady!" — the  wonderful  day  when  she  had 
stepped  into  the  little  shop,  where  she  had  been  so  kind, 


Rodari,   Sculptor 


so  interested  in  all  that  was  about  her.  Corrona  could 
hear  now  the  tones  of  the  low,  full  voice,  the  soft  rustle 
of  the  silk  of  her  dress  sounding,  she  thought,  like  tiny 
breaking  waves  on  the  sands,  and  she  felt  again  the  touch 
of  the  shining  folds  of  the  color  of  ripe  wheat,  as  she 
stealthily  slipped  her  hand  against  them,  standing  timid 
and  dumb  by  the  side  of  the  gracious  visitor,  who  had 
praised  and  admired  the  shelves'  contents  enough  to  sat- 
isfy even  the  child's  pride  in  her  father's  work. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  remembering  his  pleasure 
that  bright  day.  Could  this  be  the  same  face  which  had 
warmed  into  such  unusual  animation  during  a  discussion 
he  had  had  with  his  gentle  guest  ?  Some  lines  in  the  old, 
worn,  leather-covered  book,  always  open  on  the  work- 
bench by  his  side,  had  occasioned  it,  and  Corrona  had 
read  the  admiration  and  unusual  interest  in  the  padre's 
eyes  as  he  watched  the  slender  hand  slowly,  lingeringly, 
turning  the  musty,  brownish  leaves,  from  which  she  had 
read  hesitatingly,  from  time  to  time,  a  line  or  phrase, 
dipping  into  the  noble  rhythm  of  the  words  as  a  bird 
would  skim  a  mighty  river,  touching  with  wing  tip  the 
upper  current  of  the  strong  tide. 

She  had  come  often  to  the  shop  after  that,  "  To  prac- 
tice her  Italian,"  she  laughingly  said,  and  always  showed 
a  delicate  deference  to  the  words  and  opinions  of  Matteo, 
which  sat  upon  her  fair  presence  with  a  crowning  grace 
and  made  the  man  —  hungry  for  mental  companion- 
ship —  lift  his  head  with  the  added  dignity  her  approval 
gave. 

Corrona'  s  life,  also,  was  the  better  and  richer  for 
those  visits.  Thought  and  widened  vision  had  been  the 
Golden  Lady's  gift  to  the  lonely  little  girl,  and  the  story 
of  foreign  lands  and  peoples  had  given  the  eager  brain 
food  for  many  otherwise  empty  hours.  Best  of  all,  she 


A   Story   of   Pisa 


had  told  the  child  of  her  mother's  birthplace,  wonderful 
Sicily  !  And  told  it  as  one  who  loved  the  long  valleys, 
the  dark,  high,  pine-crowned  mountains,  with  silvery 
streams  flowing  down  their  sides  like  unwound  ribbons, 
and  the  black  lava  rocks  resembling  stormy  jewels  set  in 
the  white  foam  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore. 

The  Golden  Lady  pictured  to  the  entranced  hearer 
the  green  gray  of  the  olive  orchards  covering  the  lower 
slopes  of  the  hills,  from  where  one  could  see  the  irregular 
line  of  the  coast  as  it  pushed  its  long,  jagged,  rocky 
fingers,  graspingly,  far  out  into  the  Ionian  sea,  forming, 
between,  bays  and  inlets,  where  grew  such  brilliant  flow- 
ers as  no  words  could  describe. 

Corrona  tried  again  to  recall  all  she  had  told  her  of 
the  far-away  land.  She  could  remember  the  description 
of  the  wonderful  green  growth,  the  tumble  and  fall  of  the 
long  sprays  of  starry  jasmine,  and  of  purple  grapevines 
covering  the  cliff-set  shore,  meeting  the  sea's  margin 
even  as  they  stretched  their  delicate  green  tendrils  down- 
wards towards  the  incoming  waves.  No  wonder  the  dear 
madre  had  been  glad  to  leave  stony  Pisa,  where  so  little 
green  met  the  eye — glad  to  go  through  the  beautiful 
blue  of  the  sky,  which  screened  from  the  people  on  the 
earth  the  heaven  place,  which  must  be  very  like  this  won- 
derful Sicily,  where  the  madre  had  once  been  a  happy 
girl. 

Of  that  girlhood  the  child  knew  a  little,  and  by 
constant  reviewing  had  kept  the  knowledge  fresh  and 
vivid  in  her  thoughts.  The  little  ribboned  and  belled 
tambourine,  hanging  on  the  wall  in  her  room,  was  all  that 
was  left  of  those  long-ago  days  of  bright  youth,  when 
the  morning  and  the  evening  and  the  day  to  come  were 
but  hours  for  merry  life  out-of-doors,  for  laughter  and 
care-free  existence  within. 


16  Rodari,   Sculptor 

Oh,  why,  why  did  her  father  never  speak  of  those 
days  !  Never  look  at  the  pretty  tambourine,  although 
Corrona  felt  sure  it  filled  his  consciousness  whenever  he 
crossed  the  threshold  of  her  room,  but  she  never  saw 
him  even  glance  at  it.  What  had  happened  to  make 
those  days  as  great  a  pain  as  sorrow  to  recall  ?  She 
must  ask,  must  know  !  Now  ? 

Suddenly  grasping  his  hand  with  both  of  hers,  she 
raised  it  to  her  breast,  holding  it  there,  while  she  looked 
straightly  and  bravely  into  his  eyes  —  a  look  of  resolu- 
tion, making  her  childish  face  old  for  the  moment.  Her 
lips  trembled  a  little  and  tears  were  ready  to  cloud  the 
clear  eyes. 

"  Padre  mia,"  she  faltered,  "tell  me  of  my  mother; 
just  this  once,  only  once.     Did  she  love  me  very  much  ?  " 

The  man's  face  seemed  to  harden,  to  grow  smaller 
under  her  searching,  questioning  glance,  and  only  his 
silence  answered  the  sweet,  childish  tones,  as  if  he  fought 
for  the  mastery  of  unseen  forces  which  threatened  ship- 
wreck of  all  governed  speech.  Corrona  felt  as  if  the  hand 
in  hers  had  become  a  hand  of  stone,  as  if  his  arm  would 
feel  like  the  arm  of  a  statue  should  she  touch  it,  so  rigid 
and  immovable  he  stood.  She  trembled  a  little,  and  her 
heart  seemed  to  beat  with  loud-sounding  throbs  in  her 
breast. 

He  was  not  angry,  she  thought,  oh  no,  not  that ;  but 
some  quick  change  had  come  from  her  words,  sweeping 
him  far  from  her,  though  his  hand  was  still  in  hers,  his 
eyes  yet  looking  into  her  eyes. 

What  was  it  ?  Oh,  what  was  it,  falling  over  him  like 
a  dark,  dark  shadow,  as  she  had  once  seen  the  night 
cover  the  deep  sea,  hiding  but  not  stilling  the  turmoil  of 
its  stormy  waves. 

She  waited,  drawing  long,  suppressed  breaths,  grow- 


AStoryofPisa  17 

ing  each  instant  more  afraid  of  the  silence  —  afraid  of 
what  it  foretold. 

The  tall  houses  on  the  Lungarno,  the  stones  in  the 
Via,  the  whole  wide  sky,  seemed  to  listen  for  the  long- 
coming  answer. 

"  Padre,"  she  repeated,  timidly,  struggling  with  her 
fear  and  bewilderment  courageously,  "tell  me,  did  the 
madre  feel  very  sorry  to  go  away  from  her  little  child  —  to 
leave  me  on  the  earth?  Did  she  love  me  very  much  ? ' ' 
and  she  pressed  tremblingly  against  her  frightened  heart 
the  unresponsive  hand,  trying  to  rouse  him  by  the  tender 
caress. 

When  through  stiffened  lips  he  answered,  his  words 
seemed  to  ring  through  her  little  world  in  loud,  brazen 
tones,  beating  upon  the  tender  heart  and  brain.  * '  No,  your 
mother  loved  no  one,  not  even  you,"  he  said  huskily. 
"  She  lived  for  herself  alone.  She  knew  no  duty,  no 
truth.  She  left  you  to  the  care  of  strange  women. 
She  left  me  to  —  to  —  "  his  voice  broke  and  he  threw  out 
his  arm  with  a  sudden  rough  movement  like  one  pushing 
aside  some  restraining  barrier,  and  spoke  as  if  to  himself, 
hearing  the  woes  of  years,  as  he  had  lived  them,  one  by 
one,  forgetting  the  listening  child,  forgetting  her  need  of 
pity,  knowing  for  the  moment  only  the  tide  of  bitter 
memory  flooding  his  thoughts. 

The  toneless  voice  went  on  in  shaken,  struggling 
words  :  * '  She  came  back  when  no  more  pleasure  could 
be  wrung  from  life  —  to  be  cared  for.  She  knew  she  could 
creep  under  my  hand  and  be  safe  —  be  sheltered.  She 
played  with  my  heart  as  she  did  with  her  own  life,  — 
with  her  soul ' ' 

The  words  died  away  in  the  hurry  of  the  panting 
breath,  and  through  the  whirl  of  his  emotion  he  saw 
vaguely  the  fascinated  stare  of  Corrona's  large  eyes,  as 


i8  Rodari,   Sculptor 

through  a  mist,  and  the  sight  finally  pierced  the  man's 
consciousness  and  he  realized  his  need  of  self-control. 

"You  are  too  young  to  understand,"  he  said,  look- 
ing down  upon  her  with  a  sudden,  hard  calm,  which 
made  her  shrink  away  from  him  as  she  never  had  done 
before — shrink  as  she  would  have  from  some  dreadful, 
incurable  wound,  knowing  the  slightest  touch  might  snap 
the  hold  upon  the  life  or  sanity  of  the  one  enduring. 

His  hands  fell  to  his  sides  inertly,  and  he  turned  from 
her,  not  hearing  her  low,  appealing  cry,  or  unheeding  if 
it  reached  his  ear. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  figure  of  an  old,  old  man 
left  her  side,  crossed  the  narrow  Via  and  entered  the  shop 
with  slow,  dragging  steps ;  that  with  slow  movement 
turned  and  shut  the  door ;  and  Corrona  dared  not  follow. 
She  sat,  stunned,  by  the  change  in  her  little  world,  star- 
ing with  dazed  eyes  at  the  closed  door,  feeling,  without 
understanding,  the  barrier  of  suffering  and  experience 
set  between  them  —  shivering  under  the  bitter  chill  of  the 
poverty  of  which  she  had  never  dreamt  —  the  poverty 
of  all  mother  love  in  her  short  young  life. 

This,  then,  was  the  trouble  !  This  dreadful,  dreadful 
thing,  and  she  had  made  the  padre  speak  of  it !  to  her  ! 
only  Corrona !  speak  of  all  his  suffering,  his  unhappy, 
unhappy  life.  ' '  Oh,  padre  mia  !  Oh,  padre  mia  ! ' ' 
she  moaned,  with  strangling  sobs,  beating  her  clasped 
hands  against  the  tortured  little  mouth,  "  forgive  your 
little  girl,  oh,  forgive  her  !  She  is  sorry,  sorry ! ' '  and 
all  the  sunshine  was  shut  out  by  a  storm  of  blinding 
tears. 


A   Story   of   Pisa  19 


CHAPTER   II 

The  Apuan  Mountains  were  topped  by  cumulous 
masses  of  dark  blue-gray  clouds,  heaped  in  a  great  wind- 
swept ridge,  its  edge  touched  by  orange  light,  luminous, 
yet  threatening.  High  overhead  flew  a  long  line  of  sea 
birds,  their  wide-spread  wings  serving  but  to  keep  them 
aloft,  so  swiftly  were  they  driven  through  the  upper  air 
by  the  strong  breath  from  the  ocean. 

Over  Pisa  the  sunshine  still  held  its  clear  brilliancy, 
yet  from  the  path  of  the  distant  storm  came  a  refreshing 
coolness  and  the  scent  of  rain. 

Up  and  down  the  Lungarno  Regio  Rodari's  eyes 
searched  for  Corrona's  little  figure.  He  had  not  seen 
her  since  the  nooning,  and  now  it  was  five  o'clock  and 
the  heat  of  the  day  was  changing  into  a  coolness  he  knew 
presaged  storm. 

He  suddenly  realized  that  her  noon  breakfast  was  still 
untouched  upon  the  table,  and  that  her  frail  strength 
needed  immediately  more  sustenance  than  the  roll  of 
bread  eaten  early  in  the  day  could  give. 

"  Where  has  the  child  gone?  "  He  spoke  aloud,  and 
for  the  moment  felt  some  anxiety  over  her  absence, 
though  it  was  not  unusual.  The  scene  of  the  morning 
had  carried  his  thoughts  far  from  Pisa,  from  Corrona,  and 
the  present,  and  he  had  hardly  become  aware  until  now 
that  she,  too,  must  have  suffered,  though  like  a  pale  star 
in  the  black  night  of  his  gloomy  retrospections,  her  little 
face  had  shone  all  day,  freighted  with  its  weight  of  new 
woe. 


20  Rodari,   Sculptor 

The  door  of  the  shop  slammed  to  with  a  loud  bang, 
and  a  flash  of  white  light  blazed  a  burning  path  for  an 
instant,  through  the  somber  cloud  caps  of  the  far  Alps. 
A  sudden  swift  breeze  swept  the  dust  and  debris  of  the 
Via  into  corners,  in  scurrying  whirls,  and  stirred  violently 
the  leaves  of  the  sickly  plant  in  the  terra-cotta  jar  on  the 
sill  of  Corrona's  window,  sending  out  from  its  few  leaves 
a  delicate  fragrance,  which  brought  to  him  vividly  her 
sweet  gentleness  and  patience. 

He  placed  the  little  plant  within  the  window  and 
closed  the  wooden  shutters,  then  caught  up  his  cap  and 
hurried  out,  wondering  where  he  should  first  look  for 
her.  People  were  hastening  homeward,  and  the  sound 
of  their  hurrying  footsteps,  their  laughter  and  talk,  filled 
the  Via.  The  freshened  air,  hinting  of  the  nearing  storm, 
cooled  his  face  as  he  hurried  over  the  Ponte  and  turned 
in  his  search  toward  the  cathedral.  One  or  two  of  the 
passing  townspeople  spoke  or  nodded  to  Matteo,  indif- 
ferently, receiving  only  a  brief,  half  articulated  response. 
A  little  boy  was  being  led  reluctantly  along,  his  broad- 
faced  Italian  nurse  pulling  him  forward  by  one  plump 
hand  while  his  other  grasped  the  sailor  cap  crowning  the 
wind-blown  yellow  curls,  which  were  swept  in  a  bewilder- 
ing tangle  over  the  laughing,  mischievous  eyes.  She 
reproved  him  sharply  and  nearly  twitched  him  off  his 
feet,  when  he  saucily  sang  out  in  English  to  the  unheed- 
ing Matteo  as  they  passed:  "Hallo,  you  Mr.  Dusty 
Man  !  Say,  ain't  this  a  dandy  wind  ! " 

Reaching  the  end  of  the  long  Via  Solferino,  Matteo 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  in  all  directions. 

Before  him  opened  the  wide  Piazza  del  Duomo,  where 
the  surrounding  buildings  seemed  to  fall  away  from  the 
wonderful  group  in  the  center,  as  if  its  majesty  and  lovli- 
ness  had  awed  these  commoner  creations,  and  they  had 


AStoryofPisa  21 

drawn  back  in  reverence  from  too  close  an  approach  to 
the  perfection  they  neighbored.  The  white  splendor  of 
the  Duomo  seemed  that  of  some  dream-world,  and  the 
tall,  seven-belled  campanile  drooped  as  if  still  faint  with 
the  long  day's  burning  rays,  though  it  yet  faced  bravely 
the  clear  light  of  the  now  setting  sun.  The  eight 
galleries  showed  every  detail  in  delicate,  shadowy 
repetitions  of  their  pillared  arches  upon  the  inner  curved 
walls,  giving  double  beauty  in  the  reality  and  its  echo  of 
shade. 

Crossing  the  Via  Santa  Maria,  Rodari  passed  the  low 
baptistery  without  a  glance  at  its  perfect  marble  symmetry, 
and  mounted  the  shallow  steps  of  the  Duomo.  Across 
the  upper  step  lay  Carlo,  the  whining  blind  beggar  of 
the  Piazza,  sound  asleep,  flat  upon  his  back,  his  greasy 
cap  tilted  over  his  nose,  his  stubbly  chin  very  much  in 
evidence,  and  every  spot  and  crease  upon  the  worn  rai- 
ment showing  distinctly.  Matteo  stepped  lightly  over  one 
outstretched  arm,  glad  to  enter  the  sacred  place  without 
the  importunate  voice  and  tin  cup's  begging  jingle  sound- 
ing in  his  ears. 

The  opened,  green  bronze  doors  were  warm  to  his 
touch  from  the  day's  heat  and  sunshine,  and  as  he  let 
fall  again  across  the  door  space  %  the  padded  leather 
curtain,  the  peace  and  quiet  of  the  great  interior  met 
his  senses  restfully,  as  would  the  green  depth  of  a  forest 
after  the  glare  of  a  sandy,  treeless  waste. 

He  hurriedly  bent  his  knee  before  the  altar  near  the 
entrance,  murmuring  in  a  perfunctory  manner  a  short 
Latin  prayer,  while  his  heart  sank  with  a  sudden 
foreboding. 

Had  he  so  wounded  the  childish  soul  by  his  blind 
indifference  to  her  hurt  of  the  morning  that  she  had 
hidden  herself  away  to  mourn  alone.  Ah,  poverina ! 


22  Rodari,   Sculptor 

He  must  care  for  her  more  tenderly  after  this,  give  her 
more  of  his  day,  teach  her  many  things,  poor  little  one, 
that  she  might  not  gather  the  thoughts  of  the  sad  past 
and  brood  over  them,  and  so  dim  her  days  as  they  had 
dimmed  his  life. 

Had  his  coming  to  Pisa,  to  free  himself  from  all 
association  with  those  who  knew  of  the  trouble  of  his 
youth,  been  wise,  after  all?  Her  kindred  would  perhaps 
have  done  well  for  the  child  —  better  than  he  had  done, 
would  be  able  to  do  at  all  —  being  but  a  man.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  stood,  a  dreaming  figure  of  unromantic 
middle  age — but  a  soul  in  the  first  throes  of  a  sense  of 
guilt,  a  conviction  of  duty  neglected. 

"Meaculpa,"  he  murmured,  with  bowed  head,  and 
with  a  sigh  his  eyes  sought  the  mother  eyes  of  Del  Vaga's 
Virgin,  which  Corrona  so  loved,  as  if  he  wished  her 
woman's  soul  to  hear  .the  confession  and  know  his 
repentance. 

He  passed  under  the  oscillating  bronze  lamp,  seeming 
the  heart  of  the  whole  place  as  it  circled  in  slow  move- 
ment above  his  head,  hanging  by  the  strong  chains  as  it 
had  for  centuries,  suspended  from  the  far,  golden  coffered 
ceiling  of  the  nave. 

A  small  choir-boy  in  scarlet  cassock  and  deep  laced 
white  cotta  lounged  down  with  slovenly  step  from  the 
main  altar,  carelessly  carrying  back  to  the  choir  a  huge, 
vellum-leaved,  brass-clasped  missal.  The  faint  enervating 
scent  of  incense  permeated  the  place,  and  the  red  eye  of 
an  ever-burning  silver  lamp,  hanging  in  the  dimness  of 
a  distant  aisle  of  the  transept,  seemed  to  watch  Matteo 
with  malevolent  expression,  as  he  searched,  going  from 
one  chapel  to  another  down  the  long  nave.  Reaching 
again  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered,  he  suddenly 
bethought  himself  of  blind  Carlo's  known  affection  and 


A    Story    of   Pisa  23 

friendship  for  the  straying  child.  Stepping  through  the 
door  he  stirred  with  his  foot  the  sleeping  man,  sending  at 
the  same  time  a  small  coin  ringing  into  the  tin  cup  lying 
by  the  relaxed  hand. 

Carlo  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  struck  out  with  his 
fist,  thinking  some  one  was  taking  from  him  of  his  small 
store ;  for  he  was  more  an  object  of  dislike  than  pity  to 
all  about  him,  so  surly  his  nature,  his  hand  being  against 
all  men  —  if  not  opened  in  his  profession  of  Duomo 
beggar. 

'  *  Chi  e  la  ?  Ecco,  what  do  you  want  ?  "  he  ex- 
claimed angrily,  though  still  half  asleep  ;  his  white, 
sightless  eyes  strained  widely,  his  head  uplifted,  in  the 
ceaseless  effort  of  the  blind  to  pierce  the  barrier  to 
sight. 

*  *  Speak  !  Who  is  it  ?  ' '  he  growled,  '  *  show  you've  a 
tongue  to  wag  ! ' ' 

1  ( Have  you  seen  Corrona  this  afternoon  ? ' '  said 
Matteo.  "  Has  she  been  here?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  great  SignorRodari,"  and  Carlo  bowed 
low,  mockingly.  ( '  And  why  do  you  search  for  the  child 
to-day  ?  Perche  ?  You  are  not  so  often  wishing  to  know 
where  she  is,"  and  he  chuckled  maliciously,  for  he 
enjoyed  keeping  Matteo  waiting  for  an  answer,  detecting 
the  smothered  anxiety  in  the  questioning  tones  ;  and 
then  the  unusual  situation!  He,  ""  blind  Carlo,"  now 
had  something  another  wanted  !  Usually  it  was  the  other 
way.  Still  —  being  Corrona — the  little  one  !  Poverella  ! 

"No,"  he  finally  grumbled.  "The  child  has  not 
been  here  to-day.  She  has  brought  me  no  chocolate  ; 
like  all  women,  she  forgets  !"  and  he  growled  like  the 
animal  he  seemed,  so  void  of  all  intelligence  was  his 
heavy  fat  face,  anger  alone  seeming  to  find  a  familiar  rest- 
ing-place upon  its  sallow  breadth. 


24  Rodari,   Sculptor 

Matteo  was  turning  away,  when  the  rough  voice 
began  again : 

"  Va  !  Seek  the  child  in  the  fields  back  of  the  Campo 
Santa.  The  little  one  goes  there  often.  I  could  show 
you  the  very  spot,  if  I  would.  Good  care  you  take  of 
her,  Signer  Rodari!"  he  continued,  sneeringly.  "All 
the  world  knows  more  of  the  child  than  you.  Fine 
father  you  are,"  and  with  a  slap  he  jammed  his  old  cap 
still  further  upon  his  wiry  black  hair  and  stooped  to 
grope  for  the  stick  and  cup,  badges  of  his  licensed  office 
of  Duomo  mendicant. 

"  Little  wealth  suffices  for  the  wise !  "  exclaimed  Mat- 
teo, angrily,  and  he  flung  a  soldo  at  the  man,  and,  with 
hastening  step,  turned  his  set,  flushed  face  toward  the 
long,  low  Campo  Santa,  unaware  that  Carlo  followed,  his 
slower  progress  guided  by  the  forward  thrust  of  the  tap- 
ping batone,  as  with  it  he  essayed  each  footpace  cau- 
tiously. 

As  Matteo  neared  the  end  of  the  flat,  outer  wall,  he 
heard  a  low  rumble  of  thunder,  and  the  sun  dropped,  a 
ball  of  brazen  light  below  the  horizon.  He  paused  for 
an  instant  and  sent  his  voice  ringing  out  in  Comma's 
name,  and  thought  for  a  listening  moment  that  some 
response  met  his  ear  other  than  the  rush  of  the  strong 
wind,  but  receiving  no  reply  to  a  second  call  he  turned 
the  angle  of  the  wall  and  the  wide,  treeless  fields  north 
of  the  buildings  were  before  him,  sweeping  in  a  long 
level  to  the  base  of  Monti  Pisani,  frowning  under  the 
gloom  of  the  heavy  storm  clouds  in  the  northern  and 
eastern  sky. 

A  breath  of  intense  relief  was  sighed  forth  as  he  saw 
Corrona.  Then  his  look  slowly  changed  until  his  face 
grew  white  and  tense  with  a  sick  despair. 

He   moved  forward   slowly,    stumbling   unnoticingly 


A    Story   of   Pisa  25 

over  two  clumsy  little  shoes  and  an  old  hat  lying  upon 
the  grass.  Then  stood  still,  with  clenched  hands  and 
teeth,  watching  the  scene  before  him. 

Yet  it  was  only  a  dancing  child  and  a  black  and  white 
long-bearded  goat  which  so  moved  his  emotions.  Against 
the  wide,  brownish  green  of  the  meadow's  grassy  sweep, 
under  the  last  low  light  from  the  sun's  track,  these  two 
figures  were  clearly  defined,  the  gray  wall  of  the  Campo 
Santa  serving  as  a  background  to  the  pretty  pair. 

A  pale  little  girl,  with  wild  hair  flowing  in  the  wind, 
sweeping  one  moment  about  her  face  and  shoulders  in 
long  black  strands,  the  next  tossed  wide  in  the  quick 
motions  of  the  dance. 

Following  the  small  figure,  with  awkward  jumps  and 
clown-like  gambols,  was  the  goat,  a  very  spirit  of  stiff, 
angular  agility. 

With  lowered  head  he  butted  an  invisible  opponent, 
now  sending  his  hind  legs  as  high  in  the  air  as  he  could, 
now  rising  upon  them,  his  forefeet  angled  against  his 
hairy  chest,  his  head,  with  its  old  man's  beard  and  comi- 
cal, yellow,  bead-like  eyes  turned  in  ridiculous  coquetry 
to  one  side,  as  if  he  tried  to  emulate  the  airy  grace  of  the 
little  dancer  before  him. 

With  slower  steps,  intricate,  yet  unruled,  she  came 
and  went  to  the  chime  of  her  ribboned  and  belled  tam- 
bourine, shaken  in  varying  beat  above  her  head.  Her 
bare  white  feet  were  seemingly  winged,  so  lightly  they  bore 
her  slender,  swaying  form,  instinct  with  beautiful,  childish 
grace,  free  in  movement,  yet  full  of  a  delicate  dignity,  as 
the  strong  wind  swathed  the  thin  blue  dress  about  the 
girlish  limbs,  or  swept  it  in  a  circle  of  wide,  rippling  folds 
as  she  twirled  in  a  quicker  measure. 

The  young  face  was  very  serious,  absorbed  in  the 
moment's  effort,  and  the  heavy  eyes  appeared  as  if  recent 


26  Rodari,  Sculptor 

tears  had  clouded  their  velvety  blackness  ;  while  through 
every  motion  ran  a  languor,  or  weakness,  which  the  earn- 
est spirit  seemed  to  check  or  defy. 

Turning  to  call  the  animal  as  he  stopped  to  nibble  the 
weedy  growth  beneath  his  cloven  hoofs,  she  suddenly 
caught  sight  of  the  man's  figure.  Startled,  for  a  moment 
she  hesitated,  poised  like  a  bird  with  thought  of  flight ; 
then  she  flew  to  him  and  threw  herself  upon  him,  sob- 
bing, laughing,  panting  with  the  joy  and  excitement  of 
the  moment. 

"Oh,  my  padre !  It  is  for  you,  for  you,  I  dance ! 
I  have  learned  in  the  fields.  For  weeks  and  weeks  I 
have  tried  and  tried  each  day,  and  wished  to  tell  you, 
but  could  not ;  and  now,  you  know  !  —  and  can  see  that 
I  may  help  you,  really  help  to  earn  the  centesimi,  and  you 
will  love  me  more,  dear  padre?  Speak,  and  tell  your 
Corrona  you  are  glad  she  can  help  you  at  last !  For  I 
can  dance  before  the  grand  Alberghi  and  Ristoranti. 
You  know  the  traveling  Inglesi  love  to  see  the  dances 
of  Italy  ;  and  Gobbo,  my  goat,  is  wise,  you  see  !  He 
makes  believe  to  dance,  too,  and  they  will  laugh  at  him, 
and  I  will  not  let  myself  be  afraid ;  no,  padre  mia.  I 
am  sure  I  will  not,  for  I  am  old  now  —  nine  years  old. 
Are  you  glad?" 

Breathless  with  the  fast  coming  words,  trembling 
with  eager  anticipation  of  his  approval,  long  dreamed  of 
and  desired,  the  floodgates  of  her  usually  suppressed 
speech  were  wide  thrown  in  the  happiness  of  her  accom- 
plished task.  She  leaned  in  confident  hope  against  the 
man's  tall  figure,  all  the  light  of  her  child's  heart  mir- 
rored in  the  shining  eyes,  touching  the  little  mouth  with 
a  beautiful  smile  of  pride  and  joy. 

A  harsh  hand  wrenched  roughly  from  hers  the  tam- 
bourine and  sent  it  a  flying,  musical,  clashing  disk,  far 


AStoryofPisa  27 

across  the  grass.  A  face,  with  a  dark,  angry  scowl,  bent 
above  hers.  Not  her  father's  —  oh,  no,  no,  not  his!  And 
the  clutching  grasp  upon  her  shoulder  that  hurt,  that 
shook  her  from  him,  that  seemed  to  throw  her  from  him 
as  if  contact  with  her  was  hateful !  Was  it  the  padre  ? 
This  man,  with  pale  face  of  passionate  wrath  ?  Was  this 
the  kind  voice  she  always  knew  as  soft,  as  slow,  in  speak- 
ing to  her. 

"  Basta  !  Basta  !  Her  child  ! "  the  sharp  voice  said, 
shudderingly.  "  Not  to  be  mine,  then,  after  all,  after  all ! 
Is  my  life  to  be  twice  cursed  ?  twice  ?  twice  ?  ' ' 

The  man  stepped  back  from  the  reaching  arms,  the 
lifted,  beseeching  face.  "  Go  you  !  Run  off,  as  she  did, 
to  dance  over  all  the  duties  of  existence,  as  she  did.  She, 
your  mother ;  she,  who  has  left  you  this  hateful  gift. 
Oh!  Dio!  Dio!" 

Corrona's  hands  went  to  her  aching  throat  to  hold  the 
tearing  sobs  in  check,  and  her  eyes  flinched  under  the 
look  set  upon  her  face.  She  was  not  Corrona  —  no ! 
Some  one  else  had  taken  her  place  ;  Corrona  was  lost, — 
somewhere, —  this  little  girl  had  no  padre.  She  must 
belong  to  the  strangely  speaking  man — was  it  the  padre, 
though?  If  only  the  hurting  pain  in  head  and  heart 
would  stop  throbbing,  maybe  she  could  see,  could  tell 

The  strange  man  went  on  speaking  —  the  man  that 
looked  like  the  padre,  but  could  not  be  he  ;  that  spoke, 
but  not  as  the  dear,  dear  padre  had  ever  spoken  !  "I 
know  where  this  will  lead  you  !  I  tried  to  stamp  out  the 
love  of  it  in  her,  but  death  alone  took  it  from  her.  I 
would  rather  you  were  dead.  Do  you  hear  ? ' ' 

With  a  piteous,  wailing  cry,  Corrona  stopped  the 
dreadful  words.  "Padre,  I  am  frightened  !  I  am  fright- 
ened !  What  have  I  done  to  make  you  speak  so  ?  I  do 
not  love  the  dance.  No,  no,  it  tires  me.  I  only  learned 


28  Rodari,   Sculptor 

it  to  help  you.  Credimi !  Credimi  !  do  not  look  at  me  so  ! 
Not  like  that !  I  am  your  little  girl,  la  figlia  —  your  own 
little  Corrona  !  Ah,  Santa  Maria,  help  me  !  " 

The  small  figure  swayed  slightly,  with  outstretched, 
feeling  hands.  Dimly  she  saw  the  man's  fleeing  figure  — 
saw  him  thrust  Carlo  from  his  path  with  the  dread  strength 
born  of  the  moment's  passion  —  saw  the  sky  in  the  sullen 
purpling  west  come  nearer  and  nearer,  bringing  a  great 
surging  darkness  in  high,  black  waves  to  cover  her,  to 
cover  the  whole  world 

The  soft  grass  took  Corrona' s  face  upon  its  coolness, 
and  she  knew  no  more. 

From  cloud  mass  to  cloud  mass  the  thunder  rolled 
reverberatingly,  unheard  by  her.  Unseen,  a  blinding, 
rending  flash  of  steely  lightning  pierced  the  blackness  of 
the  stormy  heavens  from  east  to  west,  as  the  rain,  in  a 
spreading  torrent,  fell  on  the  waiting  city  —  on  the  blind 
man,  searching  untiringly,  wandering  up  and  down  and 
across  the  wide,  storm-drenched  meadow,  his  head  bent 
low  against  the  rush  of  wind  and  water,  his  stick  cau- 
tiously tapping  the  wet  sod  in  advance  of  each  step,  his 
sightless  face  set  with  a  fixed  determination  —  its  purport 
voiced  in  the  repeated  call,  incessant  and  appealing  : 
Corrona  !  Corrona  !  Corronina  ! 


AStoryofPisa  29 


CHAPTER  III 

Some  two  weeks  later  two  women  stood  looking  down 
upon  Corrona's  face  as  it  rested  upon  the  pillow,  small  and 
pale  from  the  parching  fever  and  delirium  of  days  of  illness. 
The  exquisite  orderliness  and  quiet  of  the  large  chamber 
spoke  of  the  trained  care  affection  had  provided  for  the 
sleeping  child. 

The  light  of  a  sunny  morning  crept  through  the  bowed 
shutters,  making  a  delightful  green  gloom,  pleasant  to 
eye  and  nerve,  and  the  black-robed  Sister  of  Mercy,  her 
placid  face  framed  in  the  wide-flaring  linen  head-dress, 
looked  a  very  spirit  of  peace  and  human  helpfulness,  as 
she  moved  softly  away  from  the  bedside  and  seated  her- 
self by  the  window,  beginning  her  litany  of  prayer 
marked  by  the  black  beads  of  her  rosary. 

Her  companion  stooped  and  placed  lightly  on  the 
pillow's  edge  a  spray  of  starry  jasmine  still  fresh  from  the 
night's  coolness  and  dew.  Her  hand  hovered  fora  mo- 
ment over  the  upturned  palm  of  the  sleeper,  as  if  she 
found  it  difficult  to  wait  for  her  awakening,  so  much  she 
longed  to  take  its  frailness  in  her  strong,  sustaining  clasp. 

In  her  look  was  a  world  of  tenderness  and  pity,  as  she 
saw  the  dark  hollows  beneath  the  long-lashed  lids  and 
the  thin,  pinched  lips,  slightly  parted  by  the  child's  faint 
breath. 

"  You  shall  be  well,  my  dearie,"  she  murmured,  "if 
I  can  make  you  so  by  love  and  care,  and  that  poor,  dull 
father  of  yours  shall  be  brought  to  his  senses  if  a  woman's 
tongue  can  do  it,"  and  she  turned  away  from  the  bed 


30  Rodari,   Sculptor 

with  eyes  a  little  misty.  All  her  movements  were  marked 
by  a  firm  strength  and  delicate  surety,  and  as  she  crossed 
the  sick-room  to  the  nun's  side  one  wondered  at  the 
light  step,  so  largely  and  grandly  was  she  formed. 

She  waited  until  the  moving  lips  of  the  praying  sister 
were  still,  then  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  and,  smiling 
down  into  the  answering  brown  eyes,  asked  in  a  low 
tone,  * '  Has  the  Signer  Rodari  been  here  this  morning  ? 
I  have  not  heard  any  one  enter  the  garden.  " 

The  sister  shook  her  head  sorrowfully  and  sighed. 
"No,  signorina,  not  yet." 

Apparently  the  answer  caused  her  no  surprise.  Yet 
a  faint  hope  must  have  been  hidden  in  her  heart  that  it 
might  have  been  different,  for  a  little  frown  of  distress 
and  perplexity  furrowed  her  brow  as  she  stood  thinking. 
"He  suffers,  my  sister,"  she  said  presently.  "I  pity 
him." 

"Si,  signorina,"  placidly  responded  the  nun.  "Si, 
Trouble  and  Joy  are  sisters.  If  he  persists  in  looking 
upon  the  face  of  one  only,  it  is  his  own  deed.  The  other 
is  always  to  be  found  near.  However,  life  is  not  com- 
pletely lived  without  acquaintance  with  both,"  and  she 
leaned  forward  and  moved  the  medicine-glass  on  the 
table  from  the  stray  sun  ray,  which  repeated  its  radiating 
prisms  in  shimmering  waves  of  purple,  green  and  crimson 
upon  the  white  ceiling. 

' '  Yes,  you  are  right,  I  suppose.  It  is  his  own  undo- 
ing, ' '  the  signorina  assented  ;  ' c  but  Corrona  has  been 
the  chief  sufferer,  I  fear, ' '  and  she  looked  pityingly  over 
to  the  white-curtained  bed,  the  mother-look  strong  in  her 
blue  eyes,  in  the  broad  breast  and  beautiful  arms,  which 
seemed  a  very  cradle  of  peace  and  refuge. 

The  sister  slowly  passed  one  brown,  prayer-worn 
bead  after  another  through  her  thin  fingers.  The  black 


A    Story   of   Pisa  31 

and  gold  crucifix  on  her  breast  scarcely  stirred  with  her 
quiet  breathing,  and  the  signorina  felt  a  sudden  impa- 
tience and  irritation  over  this  calm,  philosophical  accept- 
ance of  another's  trouble. 

"  I  know  the  man  is  blind  to  his  full  duty,"  she  said, 
shortly  ;  ' '  and  the  child  needs  more  than  he  gives  her, 
for  it  amounts  to  but  bread  and  roof."  Then  she  added 
slowly,  as  if  to  herself,  "  but  he  means  well  and  is  '  good ' 
in  the  passive,  limp  fashion  of  over  one-half  the  world. ' ' 

The  sister  raised  her  shoulders  in  a  little  shrug,  her 
eyes  down  drooping  upon  her  folded  hands. 

'  *  He  walks  with  his  grief,  signorina,  and  goes  on 
the  pilgrimage  without  incense  or  candle,"  she  softly 
answered,  and  the  quotation  brought  a  little  relishing 
smile  to  curl  the  corners  of  her  thin  lips,  hinting  of  the 
humor  long  suppressed,  which  for  a  moment  looked  out 
also  of  her  narrow  eyes  in  a  sparkling  glance.  Then  she 
drew  her  face  again  into  its  accustomed  placidity. 

"Si,  his  grief  blinds  him  to  the  bloom  by  the  wayside. 
He  has  much  to  learn,  the  poor  man  ! ' ' 

And,  nodding  towards  the  bed,  she  added  softly, 
"  Ebbene  !  the  dear  little  one  can  teach  him.  Patience, 
dear  signorina." 

The  gate  of  the  small  stone-paved  court  shut  softly* 
and  a  man's  footstep  crossed  the  limited  garden  space. 

The  signorina  touched  quickly  the  nun's  arm  and  their 
eyes  met  questioningly  as  they  listened  an  anxious  moment. 

"It  is  the  Signer  Rodari  at  last,"  whispered  hur- 
riedly the  signorina,  with  relief  in  her  voice.  "I  must 
speak  to  him  now.  He  must  see  Corrona  as  soon  as 
she  asks  for  him.  She  still  thinks  that  dreadful  night  a 
dream,  and  must  always  !  Yes,  always,  my  sister,  always  ! 
It  is  a  blessed,  heaven-sent  conviction,  and  we  all  must 
preserve  it.  All!" 


32  Rodari,   Sculptor 

The  nun  pursed  her  lips  and  slowly  shook  her  head 
dissentingly,  and  in  consequence  the  signorina  affirmed 
still  more  positively  her  belief  in  the  right  of  the  intended 
deception.  She  smiled  with  friendly  defiance  into  the 
protesting  eyes  raised  to  hers,  and,  softly  patting  the 
black  shoulder,  quickly  left  the  room,  protecting  herself 
and  the  situation  by  running  away  from  further  argument 
with  the  good  woman,  whose  scruples  mated  her  own, 
though  she  meant  to  ignore,  disown  them. 

As  she  hurried  across  the  wide  upper  hall  of  the  Pen- 
sion Inglese  and  down  the  stone  stairs  leading  to  the  door 
of  entrance,  she  laughed  nervously  to  herself  and  ex- 
claimed: 

1 '  Well  !  I  have  kidnapped  a  child,  am  insisting  upon 
the  Mother  Church's  aid  in  a  deception,  and  now  intend 
lecturing  a  refractory  parent  !  What  next,  I  wonder?" 

Rodari  stood  at  the  entrance,  uncertainty  in  face  and 
figure.  He  removed  his  cap  and  bowed  gravely  as  she 
approached  him  with  outstretched  hand  of  greeting, 
which  he  took  with  scarcely  hidden  surprise  and  some 
hesitation. 

She  interrupted  an  awkward  moment  of  silence  by 
saying  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  somewhat  overdone  : 

1 '  You  have  come  to  see  Corrona  ?  of  course ;  yes  ! 
She  is  worlds  better  this  morning,  and  is  sleeping  like  a 
baby." 

"No,  signorina,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  speaking  slowly  and  with  effort.  "  I  came  only 
to  ask  of  her  night,  and  to  thank  you  for  your  goodness 
and  great  kindness  in  caring  for  her  as  you  have.  I  will 
take  her  away  as  soon  as  she  can  be  moved;  in  a  day  or 
two,  probably,  it  will  be  safe. ' ' 

The  signorina  looked  into  Rodari' s  haggard  face  for 
a  moment,  studying  its  repressed  feeling;  weighing,  as 


A    Story    of   Pisa  33 

she  looked,  her  chances  of  victory  in  the  battle  she  felt 
was  before  her. 

She  stepped  further  without  the  door  and  closed  it 
behind  her,  and  spoke  very  quietly,  though  her  hands, 
hanging  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  opened  and  shut  nerv- 
ously, and  she  felt  suddenly  as  if  she  were  impersonating 
some  character  in  a  play,  so  dramatic  the  moment  seemed 
to  her,  and  unreal. 

"No,  Signor  Matteo;  you  are  mistaken.  You  will 
not  take  the  child  again  until  you  feel  more  justly  towards 
her." 

"Not!  Not  take  my  daughter!"  He  stopped, 
astounded  by  the  emphatic  words,  though  they  were  soft 
and  low  in  tone. 

"The  child  belongs  in  her  own  home,"  he  continued, 
half  in  persuasion,  half  in  assertion  of  his  right  to  decide 
the  matter,  pushed  into  argument  by  her  confident  voice 
and  look. 

The  manner  of  his  companion  was  as  calm  as  she 
wished  it  to  appear,  as  she  stood  quietly  facing  him,  but 
her  heart  was  beating  loudly  with  her  own  daring. 

"  She  belongs  there,"  he  repeated,  weakly. 

"  Ah,  yes;  so  she  does  !  It  is  truly  there  she  should 
be,  'at  home,'  as  you  say.  But  —  has  she  any  real 
home,  Signor  Matteo?"  And  the  speaker's  fair  skin 
showed  heightened  color,  as,  with  a  quickly  indrawn 
breath  over  the  temerity  of  her  words,  she  continued  : 

1 '  Do  you  think  so  delicate  a  spirit,  so  fine  a  frame, 
can  live  healthfully  under  the  influences  of  *  the  home ' 
you  have  so  far  given  Corrona  ?  Can  not  you  realize  that 
you  have  starved  her  soul  ?  You  have  made  this  sensi- 
tive child  live  with  the  shade  of  your  unburied  dead.  Yes, 
yes,  this  is  so,  Signor  Rodari  !  For  the  past  is  dead,  and 
you  have  put  it  before  the  living  present  —  before  the 


34  Rodari,   Sculptor 

child.  Ah,  the  pity  of  it !  the  pity  ! ' '  And,  for  a 
moment,  the  signorina  could  find  no  voice  to  continue. 
"She  has  loved  you  so  fully,  so  generously!  She  has 
not  even  known  her  lonely  days  were  caused  by  the  lack 
of  all  fathering.  For  idle  loving  is  not  enough;  one  must 
say  their  love,  do  their  love,  think  it  even;  not  just  let  it 
exist  as  a  plant  would  in  a  dark  cellar,  pale  and  blossom- 
less,  without  sun  and  light  or  care." 

The  signorina  looked  timidly  for  a  fleeting  instant 
into  the  man's  face,  feeling  as  if  she  were  stabbing  some 
creature,  so  cruelly  she  felt  her  words  must  wound.  She 
was  speaking  for  Corrona's  sake,  though,  and  must  go  on 
to  the  end;  and  she  sighed  with  relief  to  think  the  task 
nearly  over,  and  that  she  had  dared,  for,  in  spite  of  her 
apparent  bravery,  she  was  a  very  coward  before  another's 
anger,  and  Matteo's  dark  eyes  looked  to  her  as  if  they 
could  well  have  expressed  that  emotion. 

He  stood  bewildered  by  the  rapid  words  and  the  vista 
of  thought  they  opened,  but  their  earnestness  carried 
him  beyond  the  offense  he  at  first  felt  for  the  criticism. 

"You  are  severe,  signorina,"  he  quietly  said. 
' '  Corrona  has  been  provided  for  and  loved.  Nothing 
she  has  asked  for  has  been  denied." 

' '  Ah,  has  it  not,  Signor  Rodari  ?  Are  you  sure, 
quite  sure?  What  did  it  mean,  then,  the  day  she  quickly 
put  her  hand  between  the  mallet-driven  chisel  and  the 
hard  marble,  willingly  taking  the  hurt,  seeking  it  even, 
that  your  attention  might  be  won  for  a  moment,  that  you 
might  pause  for  an  instant  to  notice  her,  comfort  her  ?  I 
saw  her  standing  wistfully  at  your  side  as  I  was  about  to 
enter  the  shop.  You  were  too  absorbed  in  your  work  to 
be  aware  of  her  presence  even.  I  saw  the  little  martyr- 
hand  extended,  just  to  gain  your  attention,  and  I  also 
saw  the  shining,  happy  eyes  as  you  took  her  in  your 


A    Story   of   Pisa  35 

arms.  Ah,  the  beautiful  little  soul ! ' '  and  the  speaker 
turned  away  to  hide  her  trembling  lips. 

Rodari's  face  was  like  that  of  one  roused  suddenly 
from  a  deep  sleep.  He  had  followed  the  fast-coming 
words  as  they  pictured  Corrona's  affection  and  loneliness 
intently,  and  they  had  shown  him  to  himself  as  he  was,  as 
he  really  existed — unloving,  thoughtless,  selfish!  And 
this  stately  woman  had  so  read  him;  she  had  begun  by 
respecting  him,  but  now  !  He  pressed  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  trying  to  blot  out  the  unlovely,  humiliating  mental 
vision,  while  the  hot,  red  flush  of  mortified  vanity  stung 
his  face  like  a  whip's  lash.  What  had  he  said  to  the 
child  the  night  of  the  storm,  when  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  past  was  to  be  repeated,  that  in  the  dancing  figure  of 
his  daughter  he  saw  a  barren  future,  a  repetition  of  the 
days  when  crucified  love,  tortured  pride  and  bitter  loss 
made  life  a  mockery. 

The  signorina  had  sent  him  word  of  Corrona's  con- 
dition the  night  she  was  found,  but  so  great  was  his  own 
misery  he  had  been  almost  indifferent  to  the  discovery. 
Now  he  looked  back  upon  his  mad  selfishness  with  hor- 
ror and  shame ;  but  he  yet  had  no  wish  to  see  the  child  ; 
his  affection  for  her  seemed  to  be  benumbed  for  the  time, 
though  his  sense  of  the  reality  of  his  unintelligent  father- 
hood grew  keener  each  moment,  and  new-born  self-dis- 
trust was  waking  his  whole  nature  to  a  consciousness  of 
long  error.  He  must  do  something  to  dissociate  him- 
self from  this  flood  of  self-accusation  —  it  was  unendura- 
ble !  —  gaining  strength  every  moment,  action  might  bring 
relief.  But  what  to  do  ? 

The  signorina  stood  waiting  for  some  expression  of 
his  thought.  Had  she  said  too  much,  spoken  too 
plainly?  His  face  had  grown  dark  and  set  under  her 
words,  but  she  read  no  anger  in  the  glance  which  finally 


36  Rodari,   Sculptor 

met  hers.  And  as  he  spoke  his  look  steadied  and  grew 
firm,  and  she  felt  that  the  dignity  of  the  man  came  out 
finely  under  the  deep-driven  spur  of  his  self-blame. 

"I  have  been  wrong.  You  are  but  just,"  he  said, 
earnestly.  "  I  have  been  cruel,  and  to  a  child.  Tell  me 
what  to  do,  signorina  !  To  do  now,  if  not  too  late  ! ' ' 

"Do!"  she  said,  quickly,  "why  only  one  thing. 
Love  her,  just  love  her  !  She  is  a  child  and  seeks  no 
expression  of  your  sense  of  error.  Never  allude  to  it, 
never  remind  her  of  it ;  it  would  hurt  her  to  hear  it. 
Children  want  love,  and  to  know  a  sure  faith  in  those 
about  them.  Ah,  the  trusting  faith  of  a  little  child  ! 
And  one  your  own  !  God-given !  Think  of  it,  Signer 
Matteo  !  Put  aside  the  bitter  memories  you  have  held 
between  you  and  all  the  joy  she  brings  you,  live  in  to- 
day's interests;  Corrona  is  your  work,  your  pastime, 
your  crown  of  life,  even  if  she  is  the  child  of  your  wife,  — 
Oh,  yes  !  I  know  that  subject  is  not  welcome,  — know 
what  it  means  to  speak  of  it  to  you,  for  all  through  Cor- 
rona's  feverish  speech  of  the  past  two  weeks  she  has 
repeated  your  words  —  the  words  you  spoke  the  cruel 
night  of  the  storm.  When  Carlo  came  here  for  me  he 
read  her  need  of  a  woman's  tenderness.  That  was  the 
instinct  of  affection,  the  instinct  of  love,  the  seeing  that 
real  love  gives  to  even  the  blind  !  Should  yours — her 
father's  —  be  less  keen,  less  ready?  Having  love,  it  is 
so  easy  to  be  happy,  if  one  wills  to  be  ;  and  it  is  a  child's 
right." 

The  signorina  pushed  her  bright  hair  from  her  brow 
a  little  wearily  ;  she  felt  the  strain  of  battle,  but  all  was 
not  yet  won. 

A  voice,  speaking  from  the  room  above  the  entrance, 
made  them  both  start. 

The  sister  was  holding  the  shutters  apart   with  her 


A    Story   of   Pisa  37 

two  wide-spread  arms,  her  placid  face  framed  in  the 
soft  blackness  of  the  window's  open  space.  She  smiled 
down  upon  Matteo  with  a  certain  compelling  glance  as 
if  she  had  no  doubt  of  his  following  the  suggestion  her 
words  carried  : 

' '  The  child  asks  for  you,  Signor  Rodari, ' '  she  said  ; 
1 '  you  may  come  and  see  her  any  time  now  ;  she  is  strong 
enough  for  a  little  talk  this  morning."  And  she  bowed 
the  green  shutters  as  before,  giving  a  quick,  compre- 
hending nod  of  encouragement  to  the  signorina  as  she 
again  shut  herself  within  the  quiet  of  the  sick-room. 

Matteo  made  no  answer  ;  but  there  was  no  assent  in 
his  face,  and  as  he  stood  turning  his  cap  slowly  around, 
his  eyes  lowered  upon  its  revolving  brim,  the  signorina 
found  herself  suddenly  possessed  by  an  indignation  she 
found  difficult  to  control. 

"Is  it  possible,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice, 
"you  hesitate  to  see  Corrona?  Are  you  going  to  punish 
an  innocent  child  ?  Come,  Signor  Rodari !  Throw 
away  such  narrow  injustice.  Free  yourself  from  the 
unworthy  feeling  which  prompts  this  action  !"  and  the 
signorina  held  out  an  appealing  hand  to  Matteo,  as  he 
stood  fighting  with  long  habit,  with  pride  and  the  man- 
nature,  unwilling  to  bend  the  knee,  though  repentant. 

He  looked  at  the  flushed,  earnest  face,  crowned  by 
the  soft  braids  of  light -brown  hair.  How  was  it  that  her 
words  left  no  anger  in  his  thoughts  ?  that  he  —  the  man 
and  father  —  should  accept  dictation,  criticism,  blame, 
from  a  comparative  stranger. 

A  thousand  suggestive  impressions  of  her  high  and 
pure  womanhood  swept  through  his  thoughts  in  answer, 
as  would  come  in  one  breath  the  perfume  of  many  flowers 
blooming  in  a  sunny  summer  garden,  filling  the  atmos- 
phere with  penetrating  fragrance. 


38  Rodari,   Sculptor 

The  signorina  set  her  lips  together  to  prevent  the 
sigh  of  discouragement  escaping.  She  would  make  one 
more  effort. 

"It  is  not  the  dance  you  are  thinking  of ?  Surely, 
surely,  you  know  she  cares  nothing  for  it ;  only  to  please 
you  was  it  done  at  all.  Oh,  go  to  her  !  Let  nothing 
stand  between  you  two.  Begin  to-day  a  new  life  for  you 
both  —  the  first  day  of  years  and  years  of  close  comrade- 
ship. Will  you  not?" 

Matteo  stepped  suddenly  within  the  shadow  of  the 
doorway  where  she  stood. 

"Signorina,"  he  said,  with  shaken  voice,  "  you  are  a 
good  woman,  a  true  woman  !  I  have  known  few.  Cor- 
rona  has  called  you  her  '  Golden  Lady.'  It  is  a  fitting 
name.  Yours  by  right !  You  have  shown  me  my 
neglected  privileges.  In  the  clear  truth  of  your  words  I 
see  myself —  as  —  I  would  not.  But  I  am  grateful  —  for 
the  child  and  myself."  And  reverently  and  with  much 
of  old-time  chivalry  in  his  manner  he  bent  his  head  low 
over  the  strong  white  hand,  murmuring  as  he  raised  it 
to  his  lips,  "Una  grazia,  signorina?"  Then  turned  and 
mounted  the  flight  of  steps  leading  to  Comma's  room. 

"Now,  don't  be  silly,  Miss  America!"  said  the 
Golden  Lady  to  herself,  half  laughing,  while  she  winked 
away  the  tears  the  man's  words  had  brought  to  her  eyes. 
"It  is  a  play,  you  can  be  very  sure  !  And  the  stage 
heroine  always  has  her  hand  kissed,  you  must  know,  by 
admiring  vassals.  And  this  whole,  ridiculous  situation  is 
only  a  picturesque,  footlight  experience  from  beginning 
to  end." 

She  stepped  out  into  the  clear  sunshine  of  the  garden 
as  the  latch  of  the  wall  door  rattled  under  the  touch  of  a 
fumbling,  uncertain  hand. 

A  hard  kick  from  a  stout  boot  propelled  by  the  energy 


A    Story    of   Pisa  39 

of  sudden  wrath,  struck  the  resisting  barrier,  sending  it 
flying  open,  wide-swung  upon  the  creaking  rusted  hinges. 

Over  a  large  bundle  awkwardly  held  against  his  chest 
by  one  spread  hand,  loomed  the  broad  red  face  of  Carlo, 
flushed  with  his  efforts  to  enter,  and  the  quick,  ever-ready 
anger  usual  over  the  least  opposition  to  his  will. 

He  groped  for  the  helpful  batone,  carried  under  his, 
arm,  to  feel  for  the  garden  walk,  when  the  Golden  Lady's 
step  and  voice  made  him  grasp  at  his  cap,  to  express  in  its 
lifting  his  deference  and  respect  for  the  speaker,  from 
whose  generous  hand  had  fallen  many  a  lira  during  the 
past  two  weeks.  He  lost  for  an  instant  the  firm  clutch  of 
the  burden  he  carried,  and  down  it  fell,  a  cataract  of 
linen,  cotton,  and  wool,  to  the  path  at  his  feet. 

The  Golden  Lady  laughed  aloud  at  the  hissing  flood 
of  vituperative  language  he  sent  forth  under  his  breath, 
as  he  stooped  to  gather  together  again  the  small  garments 
of  varied  shapes  and  tints  comprising  Comma's  little 
wardrobe. 

She  beckoned  to  the  amused  sister,  watching  from 
the  doorway,  to  come  and  aid  in  gathering  up  the 
collection,  and  heard  a  grunt  of  relief,  and  received  low 
muttered  thanks  from  Carlo,  as  he  left  the  task  to  seeing 
eyes. 

"You  are  a  little  warm,  Signer  Carlo,  are  you  not?" 
she  asked,  her  eyes  dancing  with  amusement,  but  her 
voice  innocent  of  anything  but  momentary  concern  for 
the  comfort  of  the  wrathful  messenger.  * '  Will  you  not 
come  to  the  arbor  and  rest  ?  I  will  lead  you."  And  she 
laid  a  guiding  hand  on  the  soiled  sleeve  and  tried  to  turn 
the  man' toward  the  shady  place. 

Embarrassment  and  pride  chased  each  other  across  his 
unlovely  countenance,  but  he  felt  a  moment's  rare,  and 
in  him  comical,  docility  under  the  gentle  touch  and 


4°  Rodari,   Sculptor 

courteous  thoughtfulness,  but  the  restraint  of  manner  and 
speech  needful  for  acceptance,  was  too  much  for  his 
consideration  and  he  suddenly  turned,  thrusting  into  the 
Golden  Lady's  hand  a  small  hard  package  which  he  took 
from  his  pocket,  saying,  as  he  backed  and  sidled  away  as 
fast  as  he  could  :  "The  woman  at  the  house  sends  this 
to  the  little  one,  she  says  the  child  always  keeps  it  with 
her  at  night  and  would  like  it  now." 

Bowing  repeatedly,  he  continued  to  mumble  salutations 
and  thanks  until  the  wall  door  was  reached,  and  as  he 
disappeared  through  it  an  expression  of  great  relief  came 
over  his  face,  as  he  felt  himself  once  more  outside  of  the 
garden  and  its  confusing  influences. 

The  Golden  Lady  opened  the  weighty  little  package, 
and  looked  with  interest  at  the  small  carved  lion  the 
unwrapping  disclosed.  The  white  tone  of  the  fine 
marble  was  somewhat  dulled  from  much  handling  by 
childish  fingers,  the  end  of  the  royal  nose  was  missing, 
otherwise  each  line  was  clear  cut  and  true,  and  the  whole 
a  little  gem  of  spirited  modeling. 

If  she  could  only  persuade  Rodari  to  do  more  original 
work  !  She  was  confident  he  could  win  just  fame  and 
position  as  a  master  of  his  art,  if  only  his  ambition  could 
be  stimulated. 

She  smoothed  the  paper  thoughtfully,  absent- 
mindedly  folding  it  into  a  square,  then  rousing  herself 
placed  the  lion  in  the  center  of  it  and  raised  it  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand  to  a  level  with  her  eyes,  where  she 
turned  it  this  way  and  that,  enjoying  the  perfect  work, 
and  wondering  how  she  could  arouse  the  sculptor  to  a 
sense  of  the  obligation  of  his  undoubted  gift. 

"Well!  Why  do  you  not  speak,  Sir  Beast?  and 
tell  me  what  to  say  to  the  stupid  fellow  who  can  and  don't, ' ' 
she  exclaimed,  and  gave  the  creature  a  shake  which  nearly 


A    Story   of   Pisa  41 

precipitated  him  to  the  path  below,  and  quite  dislodged 
the  paper,  which  fell,  a  square  white  mat  at  her  feet.  She 
stooped  to  pick  it  up  ;  paused,  and  with  characteristic 
quickness  and  surety  of  touch  opened  it  widely,  sank  to 
one  knee,  and  there  remained  a  long  moment,  her  glance 
studiously  intent,  devouring  the  crayon  sketch  she  dis- 
covered on  the  inner  surface  —  the  next,  she  was  flying 
down  the  garden  to  the  arbor,  where  she  astonished 
the  waiting  sister  by  entering  in  a  whirlwind  of  excite- 
ment. 

"Look!  Oh!  Look!  The  dear  child!  She  has 
helped  after  all,  and  more  than  she  ever  dreamed  possible ! 
Do  you  not  see  ?  It  is  Corrona  dancing  with  Gobbo  ! 
Look  at  the  lovely  little  face!  See  how  the  creature 
presses  against  her  side,  reared  his  mightiest,  the  clever 
dunce  that  he  is  !  and  here  !  see  the  sweep  of  her  long  hair 
across  his  horns  !  and  the  little,  dear,  dancing  girl  feet ! 
And  the  tambourine  held  so  well.  Rodari  saw  all  this 
that  night !  Think  of  it !  The  artist  stronger  in  him 
even  than  the  man  —  his  sense  of  this  beauty  as  keen  as 
his  misery  — and  he  could  not  refrain  from  sketching  this 
delicious,  delicious,  group!  Life  is  complex,  my  sister," 
and  she  sighed  over  its  unsolvable  problems.  "  I  suppose 
you  know  these  black,  vicious,  ugly  lines  across  the 
whole  mean  that  he  intended  to  destroy  it.  He  dared  ! 
Look  at  them  !  wicked  things  !  nearly  spoiling  the  perfect 
conception.  Well,  we  will  see  if  the  child's  efforts  to 
please  him  shall  go  uncrowned  after  all  —  he  shall  put 
this  into  the  purest  marble  at  once.  Viva !  Corrona  ! 
Viva  !  "  and  tfye  Golden  Lady  sat  down  out  of  breath  with 
her  triumphant  excitement  and  rapid  speech  —  her  eyes 
deep  and  shining  with  content. 

The  little  housemaid  was  arranging  the  breakfast  tray 
temptingly  on  the  rustic  table.     The  sister,  only  mildly 


42  Rodari,   Sculptor 

interested  in  the  signorina's  discovery,  seated  under 
the  flickering  shadows  of  the  vine-covered  place,  was  a 
pleasant  figure  to  watch,  her  unruffled  face  and  soft  quiet- 
ness of  movement  soothing  the  dancing  nerves  of  the 
Golden  Lady.  Leaning  her  head  against  the  trellised 
side  of  the  arbor  with  a  long  sigh,  she  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  restful  charm  of 
the  sunny  hour. 

Over  the  housetop  floated  a  small  white  cloud,  astray 
in  the  serene  blue  of  the  morning  sky. 

A  flock  of  strong-winged  pigeons  swept  in  wide  cir- 
cles above  the  garden,  settling  finally  upon  the  weather- 
worn statues  crowning  the  pillars  of  the  high,  environing 
wall,  from  where,  with  bright,  alert  eyes,  they  watched 
the  activity  of  Gobbo,  as  he  twisted  himself  in  his  long 
rope  and  crushed  under  his  restless  little  hoofs  the  leaves 
of  the  pungent,  low-growing  geraniums,  vivid  in  brilliant 
midsummer  bloom. 

The  balmy  air  swung  to  and  fro  the  pendant  green 
vines  and  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  tall  plane-tree  whisper- 
ingly.  The  inarticulate  benediction  of  nature's  giving 
seemed  to  hallow  the  moment  with  a  perfect,  heart -lifting 
calm. 

The  Golden  Lady  sat  suddenly  erect  and  stretched 
toward  the  sister  a  hushing  hand,  while  she  bent  her 
head  listeningly,  her  finger  on  her  smiling  lips. 

A  child's  faint,  sweet  laughter  came  through  the  open 
window  of  Corrona's  room,  feeble  with  physical  weak- 
ness, but  full  of  the  rippling,  bird-like  notes  of  the  joy- 
life  only  youth  knows  without  alloy. 

The  nun  raised  the  cup  of  fragrant  coffee  to  her 
mouth,  and  she  smiled  across  its  brim  at  the  Golden 
Lady,  and,  nodding  upward  towards  the  window,  said 
placidly : 


A    Story   of   Pisa 


43 


"  Ah  !  La  buona  fortuna  !  All  is  well  with  the  little 
one.  They  talk  together.  And  you  know,  dear  signo- 
rina,  it  is  written  that  '  Words  draw  nails  from  the  heart.'  " 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY^ 


_J        / 

•     .^        •.  ••  .-••/• 


